Let’s Have One Beer at Every Bar…!
Bonnie and I were headed to Pittsburgh for Christmas break when we stopped at The Hood to have “one for the road.” But leaving after one beer was hard.
As consolation we decided to stop at the Bier House a few blocks away. But the Bier House was dreadfully dull. So after one beer, we came up with a brilliant plan.
“Let’s have one beer at every bar between here and Pittsburgh!”
“Great idea! Let’s do it!”
By then I’d inadvertently decided that driving drunk was okay. I was always drunk and I still wanted to drive. My rationale was that simple. And stupid.
We hopped into the pickup and drove to the next bar, and the next. There were quite a few bars between Alliance and Salem, 20 miles away. Also there were bars that appeared town-less.
We stopped at all of them.
We’d driven the route before, so it was fun seeing the interiors of the places we’d always passed. We proudly stuck to our one-beer regimen. Most were relatively empty bars, which was perfect for us.
When we stopped at a large, dark building on the side of a two-lane road somewhere near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border, we knew it would be our last stop. The drinking age in Pennsylvania was 21, and Bonnie wasn’t legal yet. We went inside.
There were pool tables and a brightly lit jukebox blasting tunes in the corner. The place was sprawling and empty, except for a couple of “old” guys (maybe 40) playing pool. We ordered our beers and decided to have a shot, too, since it was our last stop.
We drank our “last beer” and then we drank several more on top of the dozen or so beers we’d had already. I vaguely remember the guys sending us shots more than once, and trying to play pool with double vision. (There should only be one cue ball.)
By the time we dragged ourselves outside, we could hardly walk.
Laughing like idiots, we aimed ourselves toward the truck. I stumbled over to the driver’s side, throwing myself against the hood to stay upright. I leaned on the truck all the way around, clawing my way toward the driver’s side, grasping in the dark for a door handle. I grabbed it and pulled the door open – it was never locked – and threw my boot up onto the running board to climb in.
As I climbed, I reached for the grab handle above my head, but I missed. My hand grabbed only air and I fell backwards into the gravel, hooting “whooooaaa!” as I went. I felt nothing but the effects of the alcohol. I slammed my head on the parking lot as an afterthought, then pushed myself back into a sitting position, flailing at the open door to pull myself up.
Finally upright, with Bonnie still laughing, I gripped the steering wheel, stepped on the running board, and successfully hauled myself into the driver’s seat. I felt for the ignition with the key and, holding my left hand over my eye so I could see straight, I started the truck.
That’s when I realized it had been snowing. It took me a minute to find the windshield wipers, but eventually I swooshed away the flurries that had settled. Then I put the truck into reverse, pulled onto the pitch black road, and drove the remaining 90 minutes to Pittsburgh.
I have no memory of the drive. Someone must have been praying mightily for me that night.